


world wise, world weary

by ohlawsons



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, i think this is what the kids call 'coping'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlawsons/pseuds/ohlawsons
Summary: There's a moment on an island of glass where everything changes, and Vex never was as good with words as Percy. [Spoilers for episode 68]





	

Vex’ahlia was many things; _good with words_ was not one of them.

She could get a point across, could even sway opinions when needed. There was no shortage to her words, and no limit to her voice, but she lacked a certain _elegance_. When Vex had something to say, she _said_ it, without the flowery additions some saw as absolutely necessary.

Speech wasn’t her best quality, no, but neither was it the most crucial — not when Vex had the reach of her bow and the solace of the forest and the quiet, steady comfort of Trinket at her side. There was only so much she needed to say then, with only the shadows of the trees and her closest friend to listen when she spoke; she had other ways to communicate there, with the grace and skill she possessed in step and shot, when words were just little quiet things nobody paid any mind to.

But Percy — Percy was _made_ of words, of thoughtful remarks and clever comments and even, occasionally, a bit of wry humor. He had titles and he had customs and he had secrets, and he wielded them with an ease that came more naturally, perhaps, than wielding his guns. It suited him, as did the lordly arrogance that sometimes shone through, in the way that it did not, to even the slightest degree, suit Vex.

She struggled where he was most at home; then again, he floundered where she flourished.

Words, then, were Percy’s specialty, and Vex was left speechless and one, single thought went unexpressed, a thought pertaining solely to Percy and a thought that maintained its coherency until she tried to speak it. It was something she needed to say, something she didn’t quite have words for — didn’t _want_ to find words for, if she were being honest. She _had_ words, just not the right words, idle words that mean one thing but _mean_ another.

When she told him to be safe, and meant _come back to me_. When she demanded to know the extent of his corruption, and meant _let me trust you again_. When she said he was a better man than he believed, and meant _I wish I could show you how I see you_.

And Vex knew — _somehow_ , she knew, though perhaps it was just that her very bones _ached_ with hope that it was true — that Percy did the same, that he said things without _saying_ them in that clever way of his. What, then, she would lie awake and think, did he mean when he comforted her after all that had happened in the Feywilds? Or when he’d given her a title, and said all those lovely things?

She knew.

She _knew_ , and she had been holding that knowledge close, tucked away like a secret. _I’ll confront him about it, one day_ , she’d told herself. One day, when they were all through fighting and running and hiding, when they could celebrate in the quiet hours of the night rather than plan and pray and search for hope. That day would come, eventually, though it seemed to be slipping further and further away, and now—

Now.

Sitting amongst the shards of a glass-covered island, cradling his head in her lap. Her hands smeared the blood on his face as she held it, spreading crimson across her clothes and his hair and his lips and her thumb as it traced the curve of his mouth. He was still — too still, still in a way Percy _shouldn’t_ be; even at his most resolute and immovable Percy should have been in motion, should have been vibrant and dynamic and full of thoughts and inspiration and all those damn _words_.

Vex was crying; tears slipped down her cheeks, and she brushed Percy’s hair from his eyes and choked back a sob and it _hurt_ , it hurt like it shouldn’t and it hurt in such a different way from everything else. He’d been so sure of this, so certain of his downfall and his death and he’d long since accepted it, and somehow that made it hurt worse. Like it was inevitable, when it all felt so raw and sudden and completely, entirely unstoppable.

She wondered what this had been like, for Percy. Watching as a wayward, thoughtless action — such a rare thing coming from a man who would overthink breakfast, if allowed — stole the breath from her lungs, left her cold and motionless and _dead_ at the bottom of a damp tomb. Did it matter to him, then, the same way it mattered to her now?

Because once again, he was leaving her breathless and still but this time she was so _alive_ , heart pounding and head thrumming and chest heaving in a single cacophonous reminder that she was still here and he wasn’t, not in the same way, not anymore. Frantic whispers and long-withheld confessions wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t hold the same weight or bring the same relief but she had to _try_.

There was another way, she discovered, to say _it_ — what she was still finding the words for, what she’d so long been saying without _saying_ , what she just needed him to hear, just once.

 _I’m not leaving Percy_.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written critical role fic. I've never even read critical role fic until this week. it's been a long week and I've shipped these two for a long time and i finally had to do something with it.


End file.
